Making Molly Cry
by HeayPuckett
Summary: He never intends to make her cry. It just sort of happens. [pre-Sherlolly]


AN: This is basically a compilation of scenes cut from other fics during the editing process. All of them have one thing in common: Sherlock making Molly cry. That was too much of a coincidence to ignore, so I stitched them together into this quilt of a fic. Or Frankenstein, take your pick. Cameo appearance by the Traveling Shovel of Death.

Another big thanks to Yvanthe for making this process much easier!

* * *

Sherlock Holmes knows he's made Molly Hooper cry five times in as many years. To clarify, he only counts those times in which tears actually fell. He does not count the incidents in which Molly fled with a sheen in her eyes or the times a sniffle could be heard from her direction while his back was turned. There were too many of those situations and, frankly, most were deleted. To be fair, Sherlock never _intends_ to make Molly cry. It just sort of happens.

The first time Sherlock knows he made Molly cry was a few weeks after "Office-romance-Jim" strapped a bomb to John Watson and almost killed Sherlock Holmes' first real friend. It was only hours after the incident at the pool. Lestrade's men had collected what little trace evidence could be found (none of which was the least bit helpful) and sent it on to be analyzed at St. Bart's. Sherlock had walked in on Lestrade explaining the full situation to a horrified Molly.

The next part was a bit of a blur to Sherlock. He remembers Molly trying to say something after Lestrade left. He responded with some sort of scathing remark, per usual. The next thing he knew, shouts and accusations were being lobbied back and forth until, finally, he said it. The irony of calling Molly an idiot for not figuring out "Jim's" true identity when he himself was fooled was not lost on Sherlock. He fully expected to have that pointed out angrily by Molly, but she didn't sink that low. In fact, she didn't say anything. Molly just stood there and stared, eyes welling up with tears and quiet hurt.

(Later, he would acknowledge that his anger at Molly had been based in worry for her safety, but Sherlock didn't understand those things at that time. Even if he had, Sherlock was too stubborn to admit to thinking of Molly as a friend and not just a useful piece of lab equipment, let alone _apologize_.)

In the silence, Sherlock watched the aftermath of his unthinking cruelty. One tear escaped to make a thin track down Molly's cheek, dripping off her chin to be soaked up by the little ruffle on her blouse. Then Sherlock watched an impressive transformation take place. Molly visibly willed away her tears and straightened her spine. That wasn't just a metaphorical turn of phrase either. He could swear Molly grew an inch as she threw her shoulders back, turned and silently walked out of the morgue.

Coincidentally, Sherlock had no reason to visit St. Bart's for a few weeks afterwards. When he returned for a case, he was too distracted for any awkwardness. Molly, ever the professional, simply did her job to the best of her abilities (which put her ten times higher than her colleagues any day of the week in Sherlock's estimation) and suddenly, they were past the incident. If Molly was a little more cool towards his attempts to flirt his way around annoying rules, Sherlock didn't take particular note. He had always known that gambit would only work for a finite period of time.

The Christmas Incident, as John would insist on referring to it, didn't count for two reasons. First, and most importantly according to his criteria, Molly hadn't cried. She had been upset, yes, her eyes even got a little misty, but Sherlock had realized his mistake in enough time to correct it. He might have overcompensated, kissing Molly on the cheek, but Sherlock was distracted by the Woman, the game, and dealing with a whole host of foreign feelings. He wasn't quite himself. Seeing Molly again the next evening, at the morgue, the detective attributed the red rimmed eyes to irritation caused by too much mascara. Sherlock, it must be understood, is a brilliant liar, especially when he lies to himself.

The second time Sherlock admits to making Molly cry was the day she helped him commit suicide. It wasn't an unreasonable reaction to the day's events. Molly had held herself together admirably throughout. The tears didn't fall until they were standing at the alley entrance to the fashionably shabby building in which Molly lived. He saw first one tear, then another and prepared himself for an uncomfortably messy goodbye. Molly Hooper surprised him yet again by simply reaching out and touching the back of his hand.

"Be careful," she whispered and then began weeping in earnest, "come back."

Molly didn't wait for Sherlock to answer before spinning on her heels and darting back through the corridor. He could hear choked sobs echoing off of the walls even from the alley. The analytical part of his mind saw this as benefitting the plan. Other people would mistake her emotional upset it for grief. They would believe. Another part of him, a small but growing part, cursed himself for being unable to stop hurting a woman who gave him so much.

The third time he made Molly cry, really, truly wasn't his fault. Sherlock hadn't expected to be shot, after all. Strictly speaking, he couldn't say he actually saw her cry. It was more of an impression, a vague water colour image viewed through a morphine haze. It was a fuzzy memory of Molly sitting at his bedside, weeping and clutching his hand to her chest. Sherlock felt the tears dripping on his skin more than he saw them, but they were tears he couldn't (wouldn't) deny.

The fourth time, was his fault, however indirectly. Sherlock was man enough to take full responsibility for that situation. Molly had only been involved because he asked for her help. Had he not been obsessed with defeating Moriarty, Molly would not have been in danger.

_"Did you miss me?"_

Even as the words squawked from the telly, Molly was running for her life. By the time Sherlock managed to track her down, the fight was over. Molly's would-be attacker made the same mistake his former employer had in completely underestimating the petite woman. Even someone as small as Molly Hooper could defend herself effectively, given the right motivation, the right amount of momentum and a large shovel.

Sherlock rounded the corner at a run and skidded to a stop, stunned momentarily by the tableau in front of him: Molly Hooper standing over the prone, unconscious form of the Moriarty impersonator, bloodied shovel raised for another blow. When Molly saw Sherlock, she whimpered and let the shovel fall heavily. He reached her side just in time to keep her from crumpling to the floor.

Molly clutched the front of his coat, breathing heavily and fighting to stay standing. Sherlock anchored her with an arm around her waist. He tilted his head to get a good look at a small cut on her cheek and was alarmed to see tears beginning to pool in her eyes.

"Molly? Are you all right?"

Molly pursed her lips and nodded quickly. Tears continued to fill her eyes.

"Are you going to cry?"

Molly shook her head in the negative, paused and nodded vigorously, biting her lip. Sherlock may have panicked just a bit.

"Okay… ah… can you hold it? Lestrade was just behind me. He'll be here in a moment and you can cry on him. You like Graham, don't you? He's a very sympathetic chap."

Molly gurgled, either in an attempt to stifle a sob, or in amusement. Sherlock couldn't tell. He patted her shoulder awkwardly and peered desperately back down the corridor. Just then John, not Lestrade, barreled around the corner and skidded to a stop in front of the couple.

"Oh look! Here's John! You can cry on him," Sherlock said with an overly bright smile and completely fake cheerfulness. He wasted no time in handing Molly off to John. "He's even more sympathetic than Lestrade."

John enveloped Molly in a proper embrace, scowling at Sherlock over her head. The two men had an entire argument without saying a word, just exchanging expressive looks. Regardless of John's disapproval, both men understood that what Molly needed in that moment was the one thing John could give her and Sherlock could not: comfort.

(A few months after, when Molly could talk about the incident without trembling, Sherlock admitted to being very impressed with seeing Molly standing over her attacker's body, weapon raised, like a tiny cardigan-wearing valkyrie. She beamed. Now, whenever Sherlock listens to Wagner's _Flight of the Valkyries_, he thinks of Molly.)

The fifth time Sherlock made Molly cry was... odd. He wasn't even doing anything _wrong_. He was, in fact, trying to do something uncharacteristically thoughtful. Of course, Sherlock should have known any real attempt he made at being nice would blow up in his face.

To explain, one must go back in time a few years, picking out certain moments during the long acquaintance of Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes. In these moments were bits of information, off-hand remarks made by Molly here and there, spread out over years. These little details and throwaway comments sifted down through his mental filters, collecting in a basket set outside the forensics wing of his Mind Palace. It took a while for Sherlock to realize these bits were there, let alone connect them all into a proper piece of real information.

The men in Molly's family had passed down a clock, from father to son, through six generations. Having no brother, Molly inherited the small, intricate clock upon her father's death. Unfortunately, her father had neglected the clock in the last years of his life (understandable given the drain various therapies had been on his mental acuity), and it couldn't keep time.

Molly would have loved to have it restored, to be more than just an ornamental piece on her mantle, but it wasn't just any antique clock. It was a very delicate, intricate piece of miniature automata created by a little known artist in the 1850s. Molly had taken the clock to jewelers, watchmakers, clockmakers, antiques restorers and even the conservation staff at the Victoria and Albert Museum, but to no avail. There were fewer than a half-dozen clockmakers in the world that could properly repair the piece and Molly couldn't get access to any of them.

That's where Sherlock came in. One of those half-dozen clockmakers had met a Norwegian explorer named Olaf Siegerson and hired that man to help in his shop during the worst part of winter. Siegerson was hoping to earn enough money to go to Tibet in the Spring and was willing to do all of the menial tasks the clockmaker hated. Coincidentally, "Olaf" also happened to foil a massive smuggling ring instigated by the clockmaker's apprentice. The apprentice had implicated the clockmaker, but Olaf had proven the clockmaker's innocence.

Needless to say, the world-class clockmaker had been very grateful. Grateful enough to not only come to London on a moment's notice to look at Molly's heirloom clock, but fix it for free (Sherlock had tried to pay, but, upon hearing his reasons for wanting the clock fixed, the clockmaker was even more adamant about not charging for his services).

It took two days to complete, during which time Sherlock had to call in a few more favours to make sure Molly was assigned double shifts and called in to cover for a third. She was exhausted by the end of the two days, but none the wiser about her prized possession being nicked from her flat. By the time she was rested and caffeinated enough to notice, she had Sherlock standing at her door with a perfectly wrapped box.

"I don't understand," a stunned Molly whispered as she held the small, ticking clock in her trembling hands, "...how?"

"I know a man who works on these types of clocks," Sherlock explained simply. He felt no need to go into details. He smiled at Molly, but that immediately morphed into a frown when he noticed a telling glistening in her eyes.

"Are you going to cry?" He asked, astounded and, it must be said, a little insulted. "Why are you crying? He fixed it perfectly, I assure you."

"Yes! Yes, he did," Molly gulped, "It looks just like I remember… when it was in the display cabinet in my granddad's house, and I used to listen to it tick. It's… perfect." The last word was whispered and Molly pressed her fingers to her lips.

"Then why are you crying?" Sherlock demanded. He had expected some awkwardness, unsolicited gift-giving wasn't his area after all, but really..._crying_?

"I'm crying because I'm happy," Molly said with a smile, tears making thin silver tracks over her cheeks.

"Oh, you're doing _that_," Sherlock said, still a bit disgruntled, "why do people do that? It's confusing."

"I'm just so full of happy, it's leaking out of my eyes," Molly giggled, gently setting the clock on the table before her and turning towards Sherlock. She swiped the tears away, but fresh ones were on the verge of falling.

"You're dad told you that," he murmured, studying her face, "he used to say that to you when _he_ cried."

Molly looked stunned again, but just nodded and made no remark about Sherlock remembering that conversation. "This is the best present anyone has ever given me, Sherlock," she said seriously, "I'm not just saying that, either. It really is. You've given me back a part of my granddad, my dad and the best part of my childhood, all in one clock."

Molly reached how and slowly placed her hand on Sherlock's wrist, smiling, "Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared at her silently. His head was full of things he wanted to say -how he had met the clockmaker, the many delayed 'thank yous' he owed her- but he didn't speak. Instead, he uncurled his fist and turned his hand, entangling his fingers with Molly's. She squeezed his hand back and gently kissed his cheek. Sherlock had kissed Molly's cheek twice and remembered every detail of the warm, pliant skin beneath his lips. The sensation of Molly's soft, moist lips on his cheek was just as stimulating.

"You're welcome, Molly."


End file.
